


forget-me-not

by visionfugitive (marblecranes)



Category: BanG Dream! Girl's Band Party! (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor, Childhood Friends, F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Language of Flowers, Misunderstandings, Tattoos, lesbians being lesbians, no thoughts tags empty, sensual tattoo planning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-01-04 06:42:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21193292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marblecranes/pseuds/visionfugitive
Summary: “This is a token of my thanks.” Moca replies with a lilt of her voice. She removes her hands from behind her back, lopsided smile as cheeky as ever, and presents Ran with a full bouquet of flowers.Ran looks over the arrangement. The studio lighting casts a soft, warm glow over it, highlighting the individual petals. It’s an interesting bouquet for sure, for all the flowers are of uniform color, which is fairly unusual. Some of the petals are lighter in color than the others, varying in brightness and hue, vibrant violets and muted mauves, and some with scattered lines of white encircling the petals.Alternatively: the tattoo artist/florist MocaRan AU no one asked for.





	1. of chrysanthemums, carnations, and camellias

Sometimes, Ran isn’t quite sure why, out of all professions, she chose to be a tattoo artist. 

At first, it’d just been a spur-of-the-moment decision; a random whim exacerbated by her unfortunate “daddy issues” as an angsty young adult, and then a few rebellious stick-and-pokes in college that turned out surprisingly well. After being born to florists and spending an entire lifetime learning the craft, Ran realized that nothing would have been a bigger _fuck you_ than to simply refuse to take over the family business, the second biggest one being dyeing _one _singular lock of hair the most obnoxious, vivid red her hair stylist had available. Pissing off her father had only been the icing on the cake, however. She finds genuine enjoyment in creative work, not to mention that she’s damn good at it. Ran loves her job more than anything, but there are moments where Ran fully regrets every life decision that had led up to her career.

Such as now.

She’s sitting across the table from two people—her client, Kaoru, and her client’s girlfriend. Kaoru had been an older looking woman with striking purple hair. Ran studies Kaoru’s face for a second, her lips drawn into a lopsided frown. She’s not _ unattractive _. Her high, prominent cheekbones and long eyelashes don’t do her any disservices. Objectively, she’s attractive, and perhaps that’s why when Ran looks back down at the sketch on the table, it takes all she has not to keel over and bust a gut. “You gotta be kidding me.” 

It’s the single ugliest attempt at an animal she’d ever seen. 

“Why would I be joking? The permanence of a tattoo is a deep commitment.” 

“Uh… Right,” Ran picks up the slip of paper, studying the lines. She bites her lip. _ Don’t make fun of it, don’t make fun of it. _ “And… What exactly is compelling you to get a tattoo of a rat?”

The girlfriend’s face flushes a furious pink, and the blonde whispers something as she tucks a flaxen strand of hair behind her ear. 

“You are mistaken,” Kaoru says with a few flourishes of her hand, “That wonderful maquette before you is of a kitten. My dear Chisato drew it, and I found the image so fleeting I wanted to keep it with me forever.”

Ran hates her job sometimes.

* * *

It’s late in the evening now. Ran had just finished cleaning up, ready to close up shop when the bell attached to the front door gives one last lyrical chime. It swings open, and in steps a young woman about her age, donning a teal quarter-zip worn over a white T-shirt. She props her weight against the front counter, blue-grey eyes trained on Ran. 

“I want a tattoo,” the woman declares. Her words have a distinguishable, slow drawl to it, but matched with the half-lidded eyes, the subtle slouch of her shoulders, and the messiness of her hair, the lazy drag of her voice doesn’t feel uncharacteristic. It almost feels familiar to Ran.

Ran glances off to the side, out the window. It’s dark, the streets outside dimly illuminated by flickering street lights. She repeats, almost mechanically, “We’re about to close.”

“You’re technically open,” an easy smile spreads across her face slowly like melting butter, “Come on.”

They lock gazes as the newcomer awaits a response, Ran being too stubborn to agree but not ballsy enough to outright refuse. She usually doesn’t turn anyone away (a job is a job, after all), but in that moment, Ran wishes for nothing more than to just close up the studio and go home. It’d been a long day full of pain-in-the-asses, and the last thing she needs is another one. 

“I hear you’re the best in the city,” the would-be-client says after a moment of silence.

Stone silence. Ran keeps staring her down, mentally willing the stranger to just leave, but they’d been standing there staring at each other for the past three minutes and she’s showing no signs of budging. After enough time, Ran sighs, rolls her eyes, and fishes a binder out of her drawer. She slaps it onto the counter in between them, “Pick one.”

The other takes some time flipping through the pages, looking through each design. Every now and then, she traces a lithe finger over the lines as though redrawing them. Ran taps her foot on the floor. After some time, the odd woman shuts the binder decisively.

“Which one do you want?” 

“I want a custom one,” comes the deadpan reply. 

“You do realize… That those require consultation appointments, right?”

“Then let me make one.”

Ran sighs as she sweeps the blue binder off the counter, and puts a deep red one on her desk. She flips it open, and then pulls out a pen. She taps the end of it onto the edge of her desk, drums out a rhythm of sorts as she asks, “What day?”

The customer tilts her head, the point of her index finger resting on her bottom lip in thought, “Two weeks from now?” 

“Would the afternoon work?”

“Can we make it around this time?”

Ran makes a face as her pen hovers over the time slot, “I guess. Why are you so set on getting a tattoo in the evening?”

“It’s convenient.”

“Suit yourself,” Ran shrugs and then looks back down at the time sheet, “What’s your name?”

“Moca. Moca Aoba.”

She’s surprisingly normal throughout the rest of the appointment-making process. Ran’s surprised, having had expected a slightly more difficult customer.

Ran jots down Moca’s name in the time slot, looking down at the array of names. When she first opened up the studio, there had hardly been anyone interested, but lately there’s more traffic, thanks to word of mouth. “Alright. See you in two weeks from now at 8pm.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” Moca grins, showing teeth. Ran actively chooses to ignore the slight rush of warmth to her cheeks as the other exits the studio.

* * *

“Oh, Moca,” Ran says when Moca drops by again a few days later, again right at closing, “You’re early. By well over a week and a half.”

“This is a token of my thanks.” Moca replies with a lilt of her voice. She removes her hands from behind her back, lopsided smile as cheeky as ever, and presents Ran with a full bouquet of flowers.

Ran looks over the arrangement. The studio lighting casts a soft, warm glow over it, highlighting the individual petals. It’s an interesting bouquet for sure, for all the flowers are of uniform color, which is fairly unusual. Some of the petals are lighter in color than the others, varying in brightness and hue, vibrant violets and muted mauves, and some with lines of white encircling the petals. It’s been a while, but she can still identify a few of the flowers. Heathers, gloxinias, and lilacs, meshing together in numerous shades of purple. When she was younger, Ran’s parents taught her the meaning of each flower whenever they arranged, gesturing at the various flowers and giving her the meanings. She still remembers them.

_ Admiration. Love at first sight. _

Her face burns crimson, redder than her dyed lock of hair. She’s blushing, she’s sure of it, but if Moca had noticed, she doesn’t comment on it, though the spark of amusement in those lidded blue eyes doesn’t escape Ran’s notice. 

“You… You really didn’t need to bring me this,” she comments quietly, but she takes it from Moca’s hands anyway, admiring the arrangement. Did Moca personally pick these out? Knowing the meaning of each and every flower? Or had it been a casual gesture?

“I was just passing by,” Moca says with a wave of her hand. Ran wonders if she’s imagining the light dust of pink over Moca’s cheeks when she adds quickly, “So it really wasn’t any trouble, not at all.”

“Oh, really?” Ran gives a slight smile, “Well, thank you.”

“Ohoo,” Moca exclaims, face lighting up, “A smile. Maybe I should stop by with flowers more often.”

_ Feel free to stop by whenever _, Ran thinks to herself, but perishes the thought as suddenly as she had conceived it.

* * *

And Moca does come by. At the same time, every other day.

One of the things about the job Ran has grown to like is the interpersonal aspect of it. There’s an interesting story to each person, and although Ran usually forgets them within the next few months, she appreciates the intimacy of it, of learning who someone is beyond the surface. After all, she spends hours working on someone and most people are only comfortable with so many minutes of silence before they feel the need to break it. While she wasn’t very receptive of it at the start, small, idle conversation is something Ran has grown accustomed to and even, at times, come to appreciate. 

Thing is, with Moca, Ran gets to know her even before the consultation appointment. She learns a lot of things about Moca. She loves bread and baked goods, even brought Ran a pastry from her favorite bakery once. She has this constant air of self-assuredness and exudes confidence, though Ran hadn’t noticed this until her third visit. 

On the fourth consecutive visit, Ran learns that Moca is a florist.

Moca brings a bouquet of flowers with her again. It’s red this time, with accents of whites. Frilled carnations of varying crimsons and alabasters, with a chrysanthemum thrown in every now and then, and full, fresh roses.

_ I love you. _

Ran ignores the message this time, starts to wonder if she’s reading too much into it. Wherever Moca is getting these, it looks like the person who arranged it likes to be very deliberate with their choices. When Moca gives her the bouquet, she looks up and asks, “Where do you get these?”

“I work as a florist right across the street,” Moca looks over her shoulder and points and grins, “You should come by sometime.”

Ran blushes as Moca hands her the bouquet, weighing it in her hands. Her eyes size up the arrangement, wondering what kind of vase she should pair the flowers with. She glances back up at Moca. 

Moca stares back. There’s always that sharp look in her rounded face, and a lot of the time Ran feels like Moca sees right through her. Like there’s something the other knows that Ran hadn’t been quite let in on yet. As much as she’s learned about Moca in the past week, there’s something about the florist that leaves her a complete enigma in Ran’s life, leaving her anticipating just what kind of tattoo Moca wants.

Ran isn’t the best at reading people, she does a better job of reading ink. 

* * *

At random times of the day, Ran finds herself staring off into the distance during work, finds her mind straying off and looking forwards to Moca’s visits, before her attention snaps back to the moment and all sense of self-awareness comes flooding back and her pulse is racing faster than before.

Infatuation is an interesting thing, not that Ran would ever readily admit to it. 

* * *

One thing Ran learns very quickly into Moca’s long-awaited consultation appointment is that Moca is offensively clueless about what it means to customize your tattoo.

“What is this?” She stares blankly at the paper. It’s largely blank, with five wobbly circular shapes labeled with indecipherable handwriting. Sharp protrusions come off the sides of the shapes, which Ran presumes are spikes. Or something of that nature. She firmly plants her pointer finger on the design as though accusing it of something, “Do you want this? On your skin? This exact thing?”

“Well, that’s just a vague sketch,” Moca yawns as she draws the sketch out from beneath Ran’s finger, “I wanted you to draw it.”

“What do these words even say?” She gestures vaguely at the scribbles inscribed on the circles.

“Oh, those are labels,” Moca turns towards the paper and squints, reading out loud (with visible difficulty), “_ Camellia _ , _ Another Camellia _ , _ Camellia (but this one’s bigger) _ , _ Camellia #4 _ , and _ Last Camellia I Promise _. And then I drew leaves and stems on the side.”

“Okay so they’re camellias,” Ran says after a while.

Moca nods, and then asserts with a grim seriousness, “But the middle one is bigger.”

She nods and clips back her bangs, then picking up a sketchpad and getting to work. Ran can recall from memory the petal patterns, and in a matter of time, she has the shapes of the flowers and the rest of it vaguely sketched out. As she sketches, she asks, “Why camellias?”

Moca looks up at her, “Hm?”

“Why camellias?” Ran repeats. After a few seconds, she adds, “You’re a florist. I assume that this flower means something to you?”

“Oooh,” Moca exclaims with her usual laidback drawl. Her face goes blank for a moment, as Ran notices it usually does when the other is thinking, and then Moca says, “They’re the reason I decided to become a florist, I guess. A friend of mine showed me them when I was a kid and I thought they were neat.”

“That’s sweet.” The tattoo artist replies absentmindedly, and then inquires,“Does that person mean a lot to you?” She doesn’t realize it until she hears her own voice, but her words are shaky and fast, almost nervous.

“More than they’ll ever know,” comes the unexpectedly honest response.

Ran’s pencil stops where it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sasanqua snatched my wig and refused to give it back
> 
> follow me on twitter @aftergl_ws to scream about band gays


	2. a sasanqua blooms with our ties

Moca Aoba is easygoing. She takes life in stride, rides the tidal waves as they come and go; rolls with the punches. Even as a child, she wanted to be confident and effortless. It had been a persona of hers at first, but the longer she played along, the easier it was to maintain that dispassionate persona. It came easier and easier to her until it became a reality. For all the indifference in the front she puts up, there’s a quiet stubbornness about Moca; not so much that she’ll be outright defiant, but inflexible in her own right. The placidity is a mask, for behind her facade of indifference and slothful complacency is a burning passion. It flickers like an untouched ember; dormant and unsteady. It takes kindling to feed a starving flame, one that hungers, that is. 

And, oh, does it hunger. Home is where the heart is, and within that forest of half-baked dreams, she only truly finds her calling within the flowers. 

So why search for something that will hit close to home when it’s right there in sight?

Moca can define the moment that sparked her ardor for floristry with crystal clarity. It’d happened fifteen years ago, but to her, it felt more like yesterday. 

She was eight; her hair was probably the longest it ever would grow to be back then, bundled into little pigtails with sprigs of alabaster hair sticking out at the ends like straw. She can recall looking into the mirror, and without fail, a pair of lazy half-lidded eyes would always stared back. They were like cloudy skies—an undefined haze of gray painted over, smothering, blue hues. It was a look that reflected her quite well, Moca imagined. Just like how the mirror portrayed those greyed hues of hers, she viewed life like a black and white movie. Few things touched her, and even fewer truly moved her. From a young age, Moca viewed many things with a blatant disinterest. It wasn’t infrequent for her to pick things up only to drop it days later. Plants to her back then, were also just kind of there. Leaves, stems, roots, the basic anatomy of them—stuff she had been taught as a second grader. 

But the first time she went to a family friend’s flower shop, Moca wondered just what about the textbooks did flowers such a disservice, for the curve of their shapes on paper held no candle to the way they presented in person. Or maybe it just looked better because of who she was with.

A friend of hers—childhood friends, it’s not that she  _ chose  _ to make friends, their parents merely knew each other—was around. It was a playdate, back in simpler days where she just hung around whoever her parents told her to. She was with this girl around her age; jet black shoulder-length hair, furrowed brows, and quietly rebellious magenta eyes that looked like they were always silently seething at the world for something. Even for a kid, with the rounder cheeks and overall softer features, there was a hardness to her expression that seldom let up. The girl’s parents had both been florists, and Moca’s parents dropped by. Something about an anniversary. 

Parents would discuss “grown-up things” and all that noise, leaving her with her friend.

“Wanna come in?” The girl gestured to the entrance of the flower shop, hands held behind her back like she was unsure about how to carry herself.

“Sure.”

_ “... And these are marigolds,” a chubby finger points to a pot of frilled yellow flowers. They’re rounded at the edges, layered golden fabric folding in on itself.  _

_ They’re making their way through the flower shop. It’s a decently-sized space, filled with shelves of rows of potted plants. The rows forms a mosaic of colours, of various hues and shapes. There’s a beauty to it, to everything from the pre-arranged bouquets at the storefront to the in-store plants that thrive within their own spaces, each blooming individually, but not so much as to outshine the others. When the other girl begins to talk about plants, Moca initially guesses that she would get bored within the next minute. Few things grab her attention, and this is the last thing she would expect to do the job.  _

_ Moca wonders if she’s just getting swept up in the other girl’s energy. Maybe it’s the fast, excitable words that tumble from her mouth like they’re racing for first place, or the enthusiasm—the light in her eyes that Moca fails to see within herself. For a minute, the words get lost on their way through Moca’s ears, and she just stares at the smile on her friend’s face and the rounded edges of her typically scowling expression.  _

_ “Moca,” she calls, indignant. _

_ The child pauses thoughtfully, and then answers slow and steady, “Yeah?” _

_ “Are you listening?” _

_ “Now I am,” Moca says with a lopsided smile on her face. _

_ “This is a camellia, or sasanqua,” she states, bringing her fingers to a plant on the younger side. There’s still some buds blooming at the base, but there’s a specific flower whose petals the tips of her fingers ghost—just barely graze over—and it shifts ever so slightly. The petals are full, clustered together in a dense mixture of pink pigments tinged with red, crimson hues that appear almost like paint splatters. At its center, the pistils emerge from the base of the petals, golden protrusions powdered with sheening dust. Moca doesn’t think she’s ever seen anyone so entranced by something, but it’s contagious, and this is one of those rare moments where she can feel the enthusiasm ebbing and flowing in her, too: in her ears, a rush of blood pounding in her head, in her chest. A pair of magenta eyes stare at her, through her, as the girl’s voice drops, “My mom tells me it means love.” _

_ Moca silently agrees. _

So when she opens up her first flower shop in the city fifteen years later, there’s a nice little tattoo parlor across the street, and the last thing she expects to see is her inspiration stepping through its door at noon to flip the sign from  _ closed  _ to  _ open _ .

-

“More than they’ll ever know.”

Ran’s pencil hovers over the space between it and the sketchpad. Her stomach churns as she goes silent and tries to conceal the disappointment on her face. Frankly, she feels embarrassed, to interpret the messages in those flowers to be for her when there’s already a recipient of such feelings. Probably someone more deserving, too. She takes a second to collect herself, and then starts scrawling lines over the paper again like nothing had happened, “So, uh... you have a special someone in your life, huh?” 

Trying to play it off nonchalantly doesn’t work, she finds, behind the shaking and stammering of her words as she trips over every uncertain syllable.

“I guess you could say that. She doesn’t really feel the same about me, though.” Moca says with her usual drawl, almost cheerfully, but then her voice drops low and serious. Ran looks up, and there’s a smile on the florist’s face. Only, her eyes seem awfully sad even behind the half-lids and upturned lips. It lasts for only a brief moment, before she huffs a laugh and tilts her head, teasing, “Why? Are you jealous?”

“Why would I be?” Ran snorts, black locks obscuring the tinge of red that seeps into the tips of her ears. She throws in a little white lie for extra measure, “ _ I _ have someone, too.”

“ _ Huhhh?  _ No way~” Moca nudges Ran, nearly jerking the pencil with her movement as she pries, “Who is it?”

“None of your business,” she hesitates, then exhales. “She doesn’t feel the same about me, either.”

Moca leans back into her chair, nodding her head back up towards the ceiling. “I guess we’re in the same boat, then, huh?”

Ran can’t help but notice that Moca looks a little deflated for the rest of the session, after that.

* * *

The room is quiet, silence filled in with the faint buzzing of Ran’s tattoo pen. Moca’s laid on her stomach as the last of the tattoo gets inked across the width of her shoulder blades. After a few moments, Ran leans back into her chair and puts the pen down. She reaches up to wipe away the sweat beading on her temple, the back of her hand brushing clipped back red hair. A sharp exhale, “It’s done.”

“Really?” Moca sits up and cranes her head at an awkward angle trying to take a look.

Ran smiles, covering her mouth with a hand as she suppresses a laugh at the silly position, “I can take a picture of it for you.”

Moca takes a second to pull out her phone then hands it to Ran, “Suuure.”

It takes a few tries, but Ran manages to get a picture of it and hands it over back to the white-haired woman, watching her reaction. Her pulse quickens, and Ran can’t quite explain why she’s feeling so nervous. She had never been one to doubt her own work, particularly when she gives it as much care as she did with Moca’s tattoo.

Her client peers down at the screen, her expression inscrutable for those first few painfully slow microseconds.

_ Ba-dump _ .

A lazy grin spreads across Moca’s face. “Ooh~”

“How do you like it?” 

“Like it?”

A beat.

“I love it!” Moca says, leaning forwards and throwing her arms around the tattoo artist. A wash of relief washes over Ran, the tension melting out of her shoulders with the hug. It’s brief; barely a second or two passes before Moca pulls away. Her cyan eyes, which had always been half-lidded (and frankly, a little dead) before, seem vibrant with life now, “It’s perfect.”

She looks away, “... Same as always, really.”

“If that’s your always, you must be the best tattooist in town,” Moca replies with a lilt of her voice. She stands up as Ran leads her back to the counter to pay, “I should toss in a little extra something. What kinda flowers do you like?”

“Flowers are nice, but a tip would be great,” Ran jokes as she rings Moca up. 

“And would dinner be even better?” 

Huh?

Ran’s cheeks heat up. She starts rearranging things on the front desk in an attempt to look busy, to look nonchalant. “Pa… Pardon?”

“Dinner. I’ll treat you,” Moca says as she leans against the counter. Ran tries not to pay any attention, ignoring the blue eyes staring at her as though trying to bore holes. Her voice chimes playfully, as though singing, “So... How about it~?”

She considers it, “I gue—”

Before she can finish her sentence, the front door to the shop whips open. The bell fastened to its top corner sounds off with a crisp whistle of wind as a pink-haired young woman bursts in. She storms up to the front desk beside Moca, one hand placed sternly on her hips. It’s Himari. 

Ran frowns, recalling that they had made plans together to hang out, but the plans had slipped her mind once she got into the pits of her work. They’ve been friends since high school, and as much as she loves Himari, her friend has had a penchant for bad timing since… About forever, really. Her voice falls a little flat as she fails to mask her disappointment, “Oh, uh… Himari. Hey.”

“Ra-a-an!” The shorter girl exclaims, cheeks puffed as she huffs out a breath. She raises her phone to head level, over the counter so Ran could see it, “I’ve been waiting outside and texting you for the past fifteen minutes! Why don’t you ever reply to your texts?”

Ran’s frown deepens as she catches Moca walking out the door out of the corner of her eye. Normally the florist at least says a quick goodbye, or gives a small playful remark coupled with a wink before leaving. This time, however, she leaves peacefully without making a sound. Something doesn’t sit right with her.

“Ran?” Himari tosses a glance over the back of her shoulder at the door, “Was that a client of yours? Did I scare them off?” 

“No,” her gaze lingers on the door for a moment longer than it should have before she turns her attention back to Himari with a shake of her head, “We were done, she was just paying.”

“Oh, alright. I thought I interrupted something important for a second,” Himari exhales a sigh of relief, lowering her head, “Sorry for storming in so suddenly!”

“It’s nothing, really. Wanna get going after I close up shop?”

“Sure! I have tons to tell you about this girl I met.”

Ran sighs, a smile ghosting over her lips, “Alright, I’m all ears.”

“Well, her name’s Tomoe, and...”

* * *

From that day on, Moca never dropped by again. 

Ran doesn’t think too hard on it at first, but after a few days, it really fucks her up. She even makes a mistake on Kaoru’s rat-dog-unidentifiable-creature tattoo, but thankfully, it’s almost unnoticeable.

“You have my utmost gratitude,” the woman dramatically bows her head as she forks over her cash at the counter. Her other arm is wound tightly around the blonde (Ran finds out her name is Chisato, after about two hours of Kaoru talking about her without pause).

“No problem,” Ran responds curtly, quickly handing back some change to rid herself of the older woman. Magenta eyes wander through the window across the street to the flower shop, then back to the pair as they exit with their fingers intertwined. A strange feeling tugs at her as her mind races back to Moca; to a head of fluffed up, messy white hair, and a familiar, lazy but inviting smile that makes her chest flutter. She wants what those two have, she starts to think. Not with just anyone, but with Moca.

She thinks back to their consultation. Back to the moment she couldn’t get out of her mind even if she tried.

_ “So, uh... you have a special someone in your life, huh?”  _

_ “I guess you could say that. She doesn’t really feel the same about me, though.” _

The flowers, lingering touches, the noncommittal flirting. It all comes back to Ran, along with distant memories from a life in another city. Puzzle pieces start to slot together in her head. 

It’s a stretch and a shot in the dark, but… Maybe. Just maybe.

Later, Ran pins a notice onto the front of her door stating that the shop would be opening an hour late the next day.

* * *

Ran visits the flower shop early in the morning, dressed in a denim miniskirt with a red top worn over white. She opens the front door with one hand, her other hand kept behind her back. A bell chimes.

“He-e-ey, we aren’t open yet!” she hears Moca’s voice from the back, her head popping up from behind an aisle of flowers, “Oops, forgot to lock the door—”

The other stops when she spots Ran, her smile quickly fading off her face. 

“Sorry for intruding,” Ran says sheepishly. 

Moca takes her rubber gloves off and lays them down over an adjacent table. She steps towards Ran, “Ran, huh? Long time no see~”

“Yeah, long time no see,” she repeats, but her voice is a little sharper. Ran would almost sound accusing, if it weren’t for the sadness clinging to the edges of her syllables regardless of however casual she tries to come off as. “You stopped coming by.”

“Yep. It’s been real busy around here,” Hesitation flickers over Moca’s expression, quickly shuttered by feigned amusement as she teases, “Did you miss me or something?”

Ran takes a very sudden interest in the flowers next to her. Truly, they’re beautiful, and Ran can see that Moca takes very meticulous care of them, but their beauty is not what holds her attention so rapt. She keeps her hand behind her. “Well, I was wondering why you stopped showing up all of a sudden.”

“Mmmmmm… Well, I was done getting the tattoo, right?” Moca pauses as though thinking. She laughs, and gives a joking wave of her hand, “Unless you wanted to claim that free dinner offer?”

“I do,” Ran says before thinking.

Moca freezes in place. They both do. This time, Moca’s unable to conceal the surprise in her features. It’s the first time Ran has ever seen her caught off guard. She presses a finger to her face, voice filled with uncertainty, “Um… Sorry?”

The dust of pink over the florist’s cheeks is what gives Ran the courage to keep going, because otherwise, she would have turned tail and ran the second those words left her mouth. Her hand finally leaves her back, revealing a sprawl of flowers, sasanquas encircling a forget-me-not, its azure petals standing out amongst red and pink ones.

It’s less intricate than the ones Moca’s given her; she’d focused more so on the message she wanted to convey than aesthetic. She looks up, trying not to trip over her own words. “Uh...”

Moca listens intently. Ran accidentally makes eye contact and turns bright red.

“Well, camellias...” She winces, shakes her head, and starts over. Softly, she asks, “Do you remember what camellias mean?”

“They mean… Love.” The cloudy confusion in Moca’s face clears up, replaced by realization. She grins, “You remember.”

Ran swallows thickly, “I do.”

“I thought you didn’t,” she shakes her head and wraps her arms around Ran, pulls her in close. The embrace feels warm and safe. “Felt like I was stupid for thinking you did.”

“I didn’t recognize you at first,” a slight smile, “It’s been years.”

“A lot of lost time to make up for,” Moca starts slowly, “So, how about that dinner? I’ll close up shop, just for you.”

Ran laughs, “I’d love to. 6:30?” 

“Sure.” The florist lets go. Her hands fumble with her apron as she gives Ran a broad smile, “It’s a date~”

The front door to the flower shop closes behind Ran as she starts on her way to her own workplace. On her way out, as she turns to the busy city sidewalks, she spots a cluster of pink ambrosias that had just flowered, perfect for picking. Her gaze settles on the unfurled petals for a split second, then shifts back to the crosswalk to her tattoo parlor with a small smile. The meaning goes without saying.

_ Your love is reciprocated. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading to the end~ as always, obligatory [twitter plug](https://twitter.com/aftergl_ws) ;)


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